Styles emerged from the Mist some distance away and drew his dagger, having left his sword with Jamar. He sprinted toward the strange tableaux, in which he saw the desert horsemen surround Chieng, who had dropped to his knees and knelt back on his heels as the men dismounted. His left hand gripped his sword sheath, a thumb cocked behind the guard, his right hand gripping the hilt. The men who had surrounded him glanced nervously back and forth between Jamar, who had drawn the bow and held the draw steadily, Styles sprinting forward with drawn dagger, and the strange kneeling black robed figure they had surrounded.
As Styles got closer, he heard a bizarre rhythmic chanting in a voice he thought was too low and deep for Chieng’s vocal chords to accomplish, indeed it seemed the chanting was in two tones at once. Yet it clearly came from Chieng.
“Don’t interfere.” Jamar said as Styles came to a stop next to her. “He says he needs the practice.”
“Practice? All he does is practice!”
“I think he’s in control…,” she said, “and I’m interfering with this drawn bow.” She eased on the tension, keeping the arrow knocked, but lowering the bow. Styles sheathed his dagger.
Styles pointed toward the horizon to the West. A small cloud of dust roiled in the distance. “He’d better hurry. Looks like the rest of the war party is on the way. Judging from their wounds and equipment, I think this is some kind of military unit, returning from a defeat, and not pleased about it.”
One of the five swordsmen pointed the tip of his saber toward Jamar and Styles and called out in a voice muffled by the wind and his swaddled mouth.
“That’s it. Stand down. We’ll just take what you have and be on our way.” He glanced back at the cloud of dust to the west, then down at Chieng. “Starting with the madman’s sword, I think…” He prodded Chieng with the point of his saber.
Chieng’s attack was almost two fast for the eye to follow. His sword leapt from his scabbard as if possessing a life of its own and slashed the man in front of him deeply through the abdomen, continuing on to cut the man to his right, nearly severing the man’s sword arm. Chieng was now on his right knee with his left foot extended and he grasped the sword with two hands, stabbing blindly but certainly behind him, skewering another man in the lower belly. He stood and brought the sword back over his head and chopped into the man in front and to the left of him, cutting through the shoulder to the bone. He took a small step backward to avoid a thrust by the remaining man, pivoting slightly as he brought his sword down in the middle of the remaining man’s head, splitting the bone down to the nose. He jerked the blade free and turned to the one man still standing, though bleeding to death, and decapitated him with one swift stroke. Flicking the blood from his weapon, he sheathed it slowly, and seemed to bow, although Styles had no idea what to.
“His sword.” Jamar said, sensing Styles’ unspoken question. “Remember? It houses his soul.”
Styles looked at her and grinned. “We are an odd bunch, to be certain.”
“It’s true,” she smiled back. “I’m certain now he could defeat Sulleiman.”
“He’s good.” Styles conceded.
“Sloppy,” was all Chieng said as he walked up to them. “The last cut should never have been required.”
“Look on the bright side,” Styles pointed toward the growing cloud of dust. He could feel the earth begin to vibrate beneath his bare feet. “It appears that you’ll have more opportunity to ‘practice’ in a short while. I suggest we duck back into the Mist.”
Chieng turned to study the cloud, then back and started to speak, but his eyes went wide as he looked beyond them, toward the Mist.
“Jared Styles,” he said as he pointed, “I don’t think that will be possible.”































Chapter Twenty-Six




Lokris walked along the inside perimeter of the defense works, flanked by two new bodyguards in full battle dress, chosen from the foot shock troops by their captain for their size and ferocity of appearance. Apparently the captains had worked out a rotation among themselves for providing bodyguards. One of the guards had been a mercenary from the far north, a blond giant with cold blue eyes who fondled the handle of his own battle-axe as it swung, blade-down, from his belt. The other had been a pirate originally from an island settlement near the seven sister cities that had bred seamen and pirates for a century. He was a head taller than Lokris and a head shorter than the northman. His black eyes shone mercilessly behind narrowed lids, darting back and forth, hunting for anyone who would dare impede their progress.
For his own part, Lokris was impressed by the grim determination the citizenry was displaying as they sweated under a hot sun moving bucket after bucket of sandy dirt out of the wide and deep ditch and up the earthen ramparts.
“I wouldn’t have thought of that….” Lokris said out loud.
“Thought of what, sir?” The blond giant rumbled beside him.
“Building the ditch inside the ramparts, rather than outside. But it makes sense. Even if the wall is breached, there’s still a line of defense. The people have been busy since we’ve been gone.”
Every now and then someone would look up from his work and recognize Lokris, and call out “The young General!” and a brief cheer would be heard, but no one stopped working. Lokris felt an undercurrent of fear in the people, but far from being a crippling fear, it seemed to feed a tireless resolve.
He turned from the perimeter and headed through town toward the weapons works. Men women and children, under the direction of citizens wearing red bands on their arms, were creating barricades and walls across streets and between buildings, effectively turning the city proper into a maze. People grinned and waved from rooftops, where citizens climbing ladders with bundles of arrows on their backs deposited their burden. Others dropped planks between the low, flat rooftops for a sudden retreat back into the safety of the maze. Lokris thought the layout ingenious. If the walls and ditch were breached, every step of progress by the invader would be met with death from above.
He began to develop the hope that Morcay could indeed be defended, even against an army of Kardan’s quality. Kardan did not have unlimited manpower. Lokris silently tipped his helmet to Sulleiman for purchasing the expertise necessary to create a viable defense. If the citizenry retained its morale, the price Kardan would pay would be very heavy indeed. Finally, he came upon Captain Mahngun’s bowyer. About a square block had been fenced off with three low wooden buildings inside the perimeter, with a dozen men squatting over their work in the yard. A strong, not unpleasant odor wafted from smoke rising from one of the buildings. At the far side of the yard, Mahngun himself was testing one of his creations, loosing arrows with uncanny rapidity into a target twenty yards away. He turned to the man next to him and ran his finger over the upper arm of the weapon near the top while saying something, then handed the bow to him. The man hurried off to an area where a number of knives lay on a table, and began shaving away at the spot Mahngun had indicated.
“Captain!” Lokris called out.
“General!” Mahngun turned and favored him with a toothy grin.
Lokris met him halfway into the yard. “Now at last you can explain to me your requisition. Mulberry and Maple lumber, that I can understand. But a hundred head of long-horned cattle?”
“The horn, strips of horn, sir. That man,” he pointed to a young man sitting cross legged on the ground, “cuts strips from the horn. See, a proper bow is made in five sections, the centerpiece is the handle. The two arms are created by gluing a strip of horn to the belly of the wood arm, then the bow is assembled and tied in an arc against the draw. Then sinew is pounded into fibers and soaked in glue, applied, and the assembly drawn into a more severe arc. Then we place it in that house, to dry slowly. There are heated rocks in there to make steam, to slow the drying time. I’m rushing this first batch. It should be given months to dry, but I’ve rushed the drying for the first few dozen. Still, they’ll be better for my men than the junk we’ve imported.”
“So what I smell is the glue born on the steam?”
“Yes, sir. Only don’t get too much of it or you get a headache that takes days to go away.”
“Seems like a lot of trouble….” Lokris began.
“No, sir. I beg your pardon, but it isn’t. Not for a good weapon. Properly made, and with the arrow properly tipped, it can pierce any armor. In the steppes where I come from, a good bow, a good horse, and a good wife are all a man needs for happiness, and in that order.”
“Hawkwing’s men use the crossbow to pretty good effect. And it takes a day to construct one of them.”
Captain Mahngun spat on the ground next to him. “I can put five arrows into flight while they are reloading. I’ll admit they aren’t bad horsemen, but they are no archers. I will say Lourne half-convinced me regarding stirrups, but they are mainly good for lancers. Still, I have been working on shortening and modifying them. Makes it easier to stand and turn and shoot while they try to chase you….Look who’s here.” Mahngun gestured behind Lokris.
Lokris turned to see Sulleiman atop his spirited white stallion, decked out in a billowy black silk shirt, brown leather breeches and high , shiny black cavalry boots. He was without his bodyguards, and leading a second, more docile gray horse by a long tether. The gray horse shied from the big white snorting charger.
“A word general!” He called out, as his horse pranced about in a circle. “Leave the bodyguards!”
“Report to your captains,” Lokris ordered them, then walked over to Sulleiman.
“Let’s a ride a bit.”
He waited for Lokris to mount and kick his horse into a slow trot, led the way out of the city to the west, then turned south and stopped on a rise that overlooked the busy harbor. Two ships were unloading at the dock, while a third sailed off into the distance, escorted by two dromons. Another half dozen dromons drifted lazily further out in the harbor.
“That,” Sulleiman waved his hand indicating the entire harbor, “is Kardan’s problem. He has a couple of fighting ships, but nothing that can keep us from staying well fed and armed.”
“Whatever aids us, harms him.” Lokris said.
“You’re learning.” Sulleiman grinned at him. “Kardan has arrived. He’s building his entrenched camp two miles to the east.”
Lokris continued to stare at the harbor, offering no reaction.
“For the time being I am taking over command of the Scorpions.”
Again, Lokris offered no reaction.
“You will command the other full brigade, which is coming along satisfactorily. They’ve called themselves the ‘Ravens’. Your responsibility will be the city proper. When this is over, I’d like to implement a reorganization of the army based on decades.”
“You say my responsibility is the city proper.” Lokris finally spoke. “Does that mean you intend to confront Kardan on open ground? If so, I don’t believe that is wise.”
Sulleiman shrugged. “I will take the Scorpions into the desert, and strike where the opportunity arises. If he throws his whole force at the city, I will try and take him from the rear. I plan a war of attrition.” He stared out at the sea’s horizon for a moment before continuing, eyes still fixed far away. “We must defeat him without significant loss. A horde is on the way, and will be here within the month. The so called ‘Golden Prince’ has a hundred thousand men to throw away, and he will do just that if it pleases him.” He turned his head to look directly at Lokris. “I have no idea at what point, if at all, Kardan’s men will abandon him after significant losses. I am told they are absolutely loyal, and will fight to the last man if Kardan orders it. Who’s to say? I assume the worst. Tomorrow morning I will try to avoid this conflict all together. I will ride out alone to his camp and offer single combat.”
“That’s too dangerous!” Lokris wheeled his horse, as if blocking Sulleiman. “He might just order his men to take you.”
“I don’t think so. I am told he is as inflexible in his honor as he is in his vengeance. And I believe he will want to spare his men.”
“And what if he accepts and kills you?”
“Then you will become Prince of Morcay, and I ask you to continue what we have started here. Do not give in to any power.” He turned his vision to the horizon once again. “I laughed at the idea of my being selected by Amrah to save mankind from the forces beyond the Mist. But lately I have dreamed, and heard a voice, and I now I begin to question. Perhaps the old priest and Styles are right, that there are powers beyond what we can see, touch….” He snorted a laugh. “Or perhaps I am just going mad, like the Golden Prince. Under any circumstances,” he wheeled his horse back toward the city, “I don’t believe that there are five men on earth that can beat me with sword in hand. And I have met none of them yet. I don’t believe Kardan, either, is one of those men.”


Chieng drew his sword, holding the hilt gently with two hands, and stared calmly at the enormous lizard bounding toward them on two hind legs. He did not look back at the hooves now pounding almost on top of them. Styles and Jamar did.
“Hawkwing!” Jamar shouted happily, but Styles could only see her lips forming the word. Hawkwing favored them each with a quick smiling glance as he passed andyanked his steed to a halt twenty yards beyond them and drew a horn to his lips, sounding three quick blasts, then one longer one. His men slowed their pace, and walked their horses into a circle around the monster, who had stopped and was turning its head in a slow arc, as if studying the strange creatures with its unblinking, expressionless eyes.
Styles seized the moment to take his own sword from Jamar, who was fitting an arrow to her bowstring.
“He’s got maybe fifty knights, but that thing is gigantic. I don’t know if they can kill it.”
“One thing is certain,” Jamar replied. “We can’t. Look at Chieng.”
Styles chuckled in spite of the situation. “He’s in a trance. A pure warrior.”
“That thing is twice as tall as the tallest man on a big horse….”
A sudden challenging roar sounded from behind some boulders toward the mist, and the big cat suddenly appeared on top of one of them.
“Oh, no!” Jamar said out loud, then directed her full attention at the cat. “I’m telling him to stay…. I’m not sure he will. He doesn’t like this creature, and he isn’t afraid of it.”
“I don’t blame him for the first part…” Styles said. “We don’t want him attacking Hawkwing’s men.”
“That’s what I’m telling him now.”
Hawkwing barked some orders, and four of his men, one in front and one behind the creature, and one on either side, pushed their visors down, plunged their extra lance into the ground next to them, and raising their other lance toward the monster. Hawkwing sounded a single note, and the four men kicked their mounts into motion.
The charge began perhaps twenty-five yards from the beast, and it turned its head monstrous head almost lazily form side to side, marking the location of the incoming knights. Only at the last minute did it react, first, lashing out suddenly with its thick long tail, slamming the knight on its left and propelling both knight and horse off the ground to crash and roll thirty feet away. At the same time, it stretched its head forward and snatched the lancer in front of it off his horse. The man screamed for a moment, but the scream stopped suddenly as all air was crushed from his lings, and teeth the length of a short-sword penetrated chain mail, flesh, and bone with equal ease. With a toss of its head that knight was thrown almost on top of the first. But the other two riders managed to drive their lances into the hindquarter and belly of the beast, causing it to hiss and roar more in fury than apparent pain. Those two knights who had driven home their lances managed to turn their horses and gallop out of harms way as the beast lashed out again with its tail, started to chase them, but stopped as four more knights began their charge.
Again and again the lancers charged in the same manner, with nearly identical results. Always one, and usually two lancers were crushed by either tail or maw. Dozens of lances hung from the monsters flesh, more lay on the ground where a thrust had failed to penetrate the thick hide. Enough dust had been kicked up to obscure the monster so that it looked merely like a massive writhing shape within a cloud reddened by a setting sun, such that it looked like a cloud of blood.
A fitful breeze would now and again reveal the beast more clearly, and Jamar fired shaft after shaft into the beast, with no obvious effect. The only sign that it was tiring was the heaving gasp of its lungs that sounded like the bellows in hell.
As the sun sunk into the horizon, the breeze became a stiff wind that cleared the cloud of dust. Only seven knights of the fifty were still mounted, and hawkwing raised his hand to halt the next charge. He walked his horse to the perimeter of the ring and pulled a lance from the sand.
“This is suicide,” Jamar remarked to Styles. “Maybe if we retreat it won’t follow us. Maybe it’s been hurt enough for this day.”
Styles shook his head. “I don’t think it knows how to stop. It has to be killed.”
He drew his sword and trotted toward Hawkwing.
“No!” he heard Jamar’s voice behind him.
She saw styles speak to Hawkwing, then walk over to Chieng, who had not moved during the entire engagement. Chieng nodded.
Styles began to circle the monster, taking several swift steps, then instantly freezing each time the monster turned its head to follow his movement. While Styles advanced to the monster’s rear, Hawkwing signaled his lancers to form a line directly facing it. As Styles came around directly behind the creature, Chieng began to walk directly toward it from the side.
If there had been any pre-arranged signal for whatever Styles had planned, it was never employed. A heart stopping roar shattered the momentary quiet as a massive black body streaked over the sands on the opposite side of the creature from Chieng.
Again, Styles heard Jamar scream “No!”, but this time it was aimed at the big cat who had decided on his own initiative that it was time to attack, or perhaps its intent was to defend Styles and Chieng. Whatever the case, Hawkwing signaled his lancers forward, and the seven riders lowered their lances and kicked their horses into a charge. Chieng accelerated into a low sprint, his sword extended to his right parallel to the ground.
Jamar understood Styles plan. Hawkwing’s men were to provide a distraction. She watched as Styles leapt over the creature’s lashing tail and sprinted up its back toward its head. And the big cat leapt from ten yards away and fastened its teeth in the monster’s throat, its forepaws seizing the side of it throat, and its hind claws a blur as it shredded the monsters chest. Chieng dashed under the monster and slashed repeatedly at the rear of its legs, intent on cutting through the tendons. Styles had reached its head, and sat astride it, gripping with his legs and plunging his sword into one eye. The monster bellowed and tossed it head, and Styles was thrown into the air tumbling till he hit the ground, but somehow he managed to roll out of it and ended on his feet, the huge lizard leapt high off the ground in an unsuccessful effort to dislodge the big cat, who hung onto its windpipe and dug and shredded into the beast’s chest until blood began to spray from it in a fountain. Chieng dashed out of the way as the beast landed, and apparently his work had been successful, for the creature only remained on its feet for a second before its legs collapsed from under it.
Hawkwing’s men had once again spread around the monster, and once again charged, planting seven lances into the thrashing body simultaneously. The monster’s struggles diminished and Hawkwing’s men dismounted and drew their swords, advancing, but stopping short of where the still lashing tail might reach them.
The cat held its grip on the throat but, had stopped tearing at it with its rear paws.
Styles limped forward to where Chieng stood, and Jamar joined them. As a group, they walked over to Hawkwing, but none of them spoke. For fifteen minutes they watched, transfixed, as the tail slowly stopped lashing, the great gasping attempts of the monster to supply itself with air lessened, and the cat hung on to its throat with its eyes closed, as if in some sort of ecstasy over the kill.
Hawkwing was the first to speak. “Are there any more of these…?” He breathed. Then, shaking his head, as if to clear it from a nightmare, he ordered. “Look after the wounded. Round up whatever horses can still be ridden.”
He lurched backwards as Jamar leapt on him and hugged him.
“Uncle Hawkwing! I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Oomph!” Hawkwing grunted. “You can’t be jumping on me like that! You’re not a little girl and I’m an old man.” He picked her up by the waist and held her two feet off the ground. “Your father! We must get to him immediately!” He set her down and walked up to Jared Styles, and held out his hand. Styles took it. “I’m eager to hear your story, but first, I owe you a great debt that someday I hope to be able to pay. I assume,” He pointed at where the cat still lay attached to the creature’s throat, “that its with you….”
Styles nodded.
“Can you keep it from my horses and men?”
Styles grinned. “Probably. He’s a good little kitty….”
“We must leave immediately for Morcay. Kardan is camped outside of Morcay, intent on revenge. We must stop him, if we can….”
“I’ll go ahead and inform him.” Styles pushed his injured leg against the sand, testing it. You should see if you can drag that monster to Morcay. It will serve as excellent proof there is a dangerous common enemy.”
“What about your leg? And what about the cat?”
“Jamar can control him, and my leg is bruised. I can run that out. I’ll leave later tonight.”
“And who is this?” He gestured at Chieng, who stood relaxed, staring at nothing in particular.
“This is Chieng, the son of the Sword Saint of Endo. He is on a mission for his Emperor. The cat found him in a tree.”
“Oh.” Hawkwing snorted. “Now it all makes sense. I believe that the three of you will have some interesting stories to tell.”






























Chapter Twenty-Seven



It was shortly after midnight that his courier had returned with the message that Kardan would indeed meet him, and an hour before dawn Sulleiman mounted his horse and rode alone out of the gates of Morcay and into the desert toward Kardan’s camp. As he rode, he found himself meditating on the life that had brought him to this moment. He thought about the shadow cast upon him as a child by his older brother, whom tradition favored with the education and training. While he had been shuffled off to a public school run by a mean spirited cleric, an Ahmin in the service of Amrah, his brother had entertained the finest tutors. Whereas various weapons masters taught his brother the sword, the bow, and horsemanship, Sulleiman found himself searching out mentors in the seamier parts of town. A mercenary cutthroat from Hazziz taught him blade work if not dueling, renegade Sythian from the Steppes taught him to ride and the use of the short military bow, if not the long hunting and tournament bows his brother mastered, and a sinister murderer escaped from one of the Sultan’s infamous prisons taught him to kill with whatever might be on hand. To pay these men he took up stealing, then robbery, and he soon had the distinction of one who was never caught. At sixteen he finally challenged his brother, and after a struggle that lasted nearly fifteen minutes, Sulleiman had found himself with his face pressed into the mud and held there by a big leather boot. He remembered his brother’s laughter, not a vicious thing, but rather proud. ‘Where did you learn to fight like that! I believe I will be sore for a week!’
That is what bothered him the most, the righteousness, the nobility that his brother had been trained in as a member of the somewhat privileged class of public administrators. The truth was that Sulleiman hated him because he envied him. Why should he have been less respected simply because he was born second? It was pride that led him to despise his brother, and when his brother entered into the public service Sulleiman determined to do just the opposite, enter into the public disservice, and his life as a career criminal began. His brother represented the law, and he would become an outlaw.
And he mused, in the end he had become far more renowned for his efforts than his brother, as high as his brother had risen in the service of the Grand Sultan Mahjim. But his brother had attained to something Sulleiman never had, legitimacy. His sole source of pride was that he was good at what he did, only he had never done anything good. Even when he had accepted Style’s proposition, it had been merely to save his own life.
Yet now, when he rode through the streets of Morcay, people cheered him, people who he would have gladly victimized not long ago, and from across the world people were being drawn to Morcay in droves, not simply because the rest of the world was in turmoil, but because the chance of a new start, a new life, was being whispered and trumpeted around the world. What had started as another ruse in his mind was no longer one; he was indeed the Satrap and Prince of Morcay, the protector in fact of these people.
Lokris had said to his brother, “..it is a time for heroes.” Lokris, a pitiful corporal in the pitiful police force of a cowardly city, now a hero at the head of a growing army. The original population of Morcay, no heroes, no champions of virtue, seemed willing now to die to a man in defense of their new legitimacy. It was almost as if the lot of them had been given a reprieve by Amrah, a chance at en masse redemption. He thought that bizarre, but realized for the first time it was what he now sought: redemption. The idea irritated him, surprised him, and gladdened him at the same time. For the first time he was bending his not inconsiderable talents to a cause greater, or at least other, than his own.
“I am being of service…!” He mumbled with surprise at himself, then reined in when he saw against a setting moon the silhouettes of several armored lancers on a sandy rise a few hundred yards away. They studied him for a few moments then turned their horses back toward Kardan’s camp.
“Am I to believe General Kardan does not trust me to come alone?” He laughed and patted his stallion’s neck, kicked his horse back into a walk. “As honorable a man as I have become, I now ride to kill a man who I have shamed and dishonored by kidnapping his daughter.” But, he thought, that same man was bent on destroying the vehicle of his redemption, the dreams of the tens of thousands who had flocked to Morcay. And though he thought Kardan did not stand a chance against him, the only way to save Morcay that he could see was to kill Kardan. It was a murder he could bear, and in other days he would have hired assassins to try to deal with him.
Styles, however, had taught him a lesson he had not known since that day his brother had pushed his face into the mud with his heavy foot. While the Orphan strangled him slowly near to death, Sulleiman realized he could be taken in single combat. And so it did not pay to underestimate anyone. Kardan had spent years as a common soldier, and rose through the ranks, in units that saw more combat then any Sulleiman knew about. Indeed, Kardan’s life had been spent either in battle or preparing for it, some in the front ranks of those battles. He could kill and he could avoid being killed. And rumor had it that when his legion marched he marched with them still, his sandals slapping out the same cadence as the lowliest trooper. He only mounted when speed was required, or to see that battle more clearly. And so he had to be tough, and still in excellent condition. He and his men marched twenty-five miles a day as a norm, and had at times been called ‘foot-cavalry’ by their enemies, by the way they would suddenly appear in places no one thought they could be. But, he chuckled to himself, he probably won’t be possessed by a wolf, big cat, or constricting snake. He will just be a tough, tough man. And Sulleiman had killed many tough men in his day.
For the rest of his ride, Sulleiman emptied his mind and went though a routine of shrugging, rolling his neck, and stretching and relaxing his muscles as best he could on horseback.
True to his earlier musings, Kardan had marched out to the location set for the duel on foot. He stood like a dark statue, a double edged short sword in his right hand, a rectangular shield in the other. Sulleiman dismounted, and rather than approach him directly with the sun in his eyes, he circled Kardan until the sun would not favor either of them at the beginning of the fight. He studied Kardan’s armor, chain mail and hardened leather greaves, studded leather gauntlets and armguards, enough to offer him some protection but not enough to slow him down considerably. All that stood between Sulleiman and Kardan’s sword was a silk shirt. Sulleiman walked toward him, relaxed, stopped ten yards away, and studied the General’s face. He saw in those hard, scarred features no fear and no softness, let alone no mercy. He would have to kill him. Kardan was not a man who would yield. Neither moved during a long period of silence in which they studied each other. It was Kardan who spoke first.
“Why are you here?”
Sulleiman was surprised by the question. “To spare my city, my people. And I don’t think it is a very great risk. You may be a great soldier, a great general, but I am a great swordsman. Here, your formations, your discipline will do you no good. Here, your vengeance and honor will kill you. But if I may ask you, why are you here?”
“To kill you.” Kardan replied simply.
Sulleiman laughed, and to his own ears it sounded like his brother’s laugh so many years ago. “One of our prophets has said: ‘Purity of heart is to will one thing’. I believe now I have seen at last a pure heart!”
Kardan said nothing, his eyes locked on Sulleiman.
Sulleiman sighed. “Let us, then, get this thing over with.” Sulleiman drew his long, curved blade in an unhurried manner. “No more words, then.”
Kardan’s attack was simple, sudden, direct, and powerful. He charged Sulleiman like an enraged bull, thrusting the bulk of his shield at the taller man in an effort to knock him off balance, and while the shield did strike Sulleiman even as he leapt backwards, it did not knock him over, nor did the darting tip of Kardan’s following thrust touch him, as he leapt back again.
Sulleiman did dance backward then begin to circle Kardan, whose eyes could be seen just above the lip of his shield as he stalked Sulleiman, careful, however, to not have the sun in his eyes for more than brief moments.
Sulleiman began his counterattack in earnest, raining a flurry of lightning cuts and thrusts from all directions and at all parts of Kardan’s body, but with an admirable economy of motion and effort, Kardan managed to deflect, block, sidestep or lean away from every blow that threatened him, and seemed to recognize every feint for what it was.
In fact, Kardan’s shield work was astonishing, so innately reflexive that Kardan seemed to him more a machine than a man. On one occasion he managed to land a slash across Kardan’s brow, but in return he received a puncture wound to his belly from the sword that darted like a serpent’s strike out of Kardan’s defenses, so now Sulleiman continued his circling from a greater distance, studying Kardan’s footwork for weakness, some small flaw that would allow him to land a killing or crippling stroke.
He didn’t know if Kardan was tiring, but he felt he was. Kardan’s sword had darted a half inch into his muscle wall, and he could feel hot blood flowing down his abdomen, into his crotch, and down his left thigh. At the same time, the cut on Kardan’s forehead, while superficial, had trickled blood down the right side of his face, some of it into his eye, and he blinked occasionally to clear it, finally attempting to clear it with his sword arm. Sulleiman had switched direction and was circling to his left to take advantage of the troubled eye, and when Kardan began to lift his arm to clear it, Sulleiman launched a swift back stoke that cut though the leather and flesh of Kardan’s right thigh, but in return found himself slammed off his feet by Kardan’s shield.
He rolled quickly away and regained his feet, narrowly avoiding the plunging thrust of Kardan’s sword. He began to circle again, knowing that a longsword would have found its mark. And Kardan continued to stalk him, but Sulleiman realized the cut had been worth the risk, for Kardan no longer tried to brush he blood from his eye, and it was rapidly becoming useless. And Kardan soon began to limp as he turned to keep Sulleiman in front of him. Sulleiman danced and waited, launching a series of attacks that forced Kardan to place weight on his left leg. He accelerated the speed of his circling, even though he felt himself becoming slightly dizzy from the constant loss of his own blood.
The end came suddenly, as Kardan’s leg collapsed under him, and he fell heavily on his own sword arm, pinning it for a moment. He managed to cover his fall with his shield. But Sulleiman jumped and landed with both feet on the shield, pinning it long enough to touch the tip of his sword to Kardan’s throat.
Kardan stared up at him with no change of expression, his eyes bored into Sulleiman filled with black hatred. “Finish it.” He growled the command as if were ordering one of his soldiers.
Sulleiman stepped off the shield and kicked Kardan’s sword from his hand, but kept the tip of his sword to his throat.
“First, answer me truthfully. If I kill you, will your army depart, or will they seek vengeance?”
It seemed to Sulleiman that Kardan was seriously considering the matter.
“They will avenge me.”
“Second, do you leave behind capable commanders?”
“Many.”
Sulleiman stared at Kardan for a long moment. “If I let you live, will you leave me in peace.”
Kardan did not need to consider that answer. “No.”
Again, Sulleiman retained silence, studying the man below him. Finally, he withdrew the sword from Kardan’s throat and whistled to his horse, who trotted dutifully toward him. Sulleiman sheathed his sword and mounted the prancing white destrier. He walked it over to Kardan and looked down on him. “I shall ride to your encampment and inform them you need help.”
“Why?” Kardan pushed himself up on his elbow.
“Because I need to make amends for what I have done to you and your daughter, and to do that, I give you you’re life. But should we meet again in combat, I shall show you no mercy.” He turned the head of his horse to the southeast.
As he rode away, he heard Kardan behind him. “You’re a fool….”
He said nothing in reply.

























Chapter Twenty-Nine




Styles had covered a hundred miles in two days with no incident. He had kept off the half finished road Sulleiman’s engineers were building to the mist along a long-dried riverbed, mostly to avoid any other parties of horsemen like the men Chieng had cut down. It would be several days before Hawkwing and the rest could haul the monstrous beast this far, but he had to find a way to convince Kardan to delay, or break off any action he may have started until they arrived.
Already he missed Jamar and the big cat, and to a lesser extent Chieng, and he realized his life had undergone a fundamental change. He had never really missed anyone before. And he also understood how right it was the Orphan code ruled out any close attachments for its members. No wives, no children. He knew he would bargain for Jamar’s life or even the huge cat, who he feared would leave them for its home in the Mist rather than endure the uncertainty of humankind, but he could hardly blame him for that.
He had been comfortable in his role as a Free Orphan, wanting no warmth or companionship, fixed on achieving his goals. He had felt great pleasure at ending the careers of men, and women, like the so-called Light Bearer, Ormuz, who behind his cloak of sanctity practiced his fiendish rites and cannibalism. Now, he had no idea what the future held for him, but at the same time….Another sound came to him, besides the steady padding of his running feet through the soft sand, and he ceased his rumination which only occupied the half of his mind he had left human. He recognized the sound immediately, although he figured it to be more than a mile away. The sound of many hoof beats at fast canter. The sound of a large cavalry force. He paused for a moment determining the direction it was going, and since it was in the same general direction he was heading, he determined to follow it.
He could keep pace with a cantering horse for as long as a horse could run, but he had to step up his own pace to one that tired him to cover the ground between them at an angle that would bring him up behind them. He only allowed himself to come within eyesight once, and that when he was on a rise well above them with the moon beyond them. He stopped and made a quick estimate of the strength of the force, counting between seven and eight hundred horse. He waited until they were well out of sight before he started after them again, loping at an easy gait that ate up the miles.
Shortly after dawn the earth stopped vibrating beneath his bare feet and he knew the body of horsemen had come to a stop. He slowed his pace to a jog and zigzagged both to the east and west searching for a vantage point. The sea breeze shifted onshore as the sand heated up under the sun, and carried the scent of the horses to him, but also the scent of more men than had originally been on horseback, many more men.
He found a rise that could conceal him, and scrambled up it, the dropped to his belly near the top and crawled till he could peer onto the scene below.
The riders had formed a broad, disorganized skirmish line, and they sat their horses nervously, spears half raised and hands on sword hilts. Beyond them, a body of infantry had formed up in much tighter and disciplined order, fronted by pikes. Behind them archers had lined up, and beyond that about twenty horses had formed up in a single line. They were far enough away that Styles could not see any detail, but he guessed that it had to be either Kardan or Sulleiman’s. The guesswork ended when a large white destrier advanced through the ranks of infantry and cantered forward in high stepping spirited fashion, snorting as it came. Sulleiman.
Styles decided to leave his position, assuming that a lone man with a sword on his naked back would not inspire a sudden charge. He could outlast a cantering horse, but he couldn’t outrun a full gallop. Still, no one noticed him. A leader had emerged from the riders he had followed and had engaged Sulleiman in conversation. It was not until he walked around the left flank of the body of desert horsemen that anyone noticed him.
“Look!” A rider drew his sword and pointed at Styles, who ignored him, circuiting the cavalry and turning finally to walk toward Sulleiman and the man he had met between the two forces.
Sulleiman held up a silencing hand to the other rider, and snorted a laugh. “Is it you, Jared Styles? The sun has burned you brown!”
Styles said nothing till he was directly beneath Sulleiman and looking up at him. “You must not engage Kardan. At least not till I talk to him. His daughter lives, and is on her way with Hawkwing.”
“I have no choice. Already his siege is raining shot on Morcay. I wish it were not so, but the man demands my head.”
“I will talk to him and get him to withdraw.”
“Good luck.” Sulleiman snorted.
“What is this?” Styles swept his hand in the direction of the desert horsemen.
“This? This is what’s left of the force of seven thousand horse that attacked our settlement to the west. They had been left to guard their base. Lokris and his Scorpions,” he motioned to the men behind him, “slaughtered the rest.”
“Lokris?”
“I had cause to make him my general. He proved more than adequate. As did the men. But now these men wish to join me. You speak the dialect of the desert tribes, if my memory serves me….”
“Some,” Styles admitted.
“Tell this man why you wish to join me.” Sulleiman ordered the tribesman.
Styles turned to the other man on horseback and looked up at him, who stared at him suspiciously with one good eye through a parting in the rags that wrapped his face, glanced briefly at Sulleiman, who he clearly respected and feared, then back at Styles.
“Very well. We rode at the orders of the Golden Prince, the Prince of Safir, who had sent men to buy out services, but now we find that our defeat has caused him to burn out our tribes. Our outriders have told us that the Golden Prince marches on Morcay with a hundred thousand men, calling himself the voice of Amrah. On the way he is burning all our tents, and killing all our women and children, slaughtering our animals as well. His orders to the fanatics who believe he is the mouth of Amrah is to leave nothing alive. Myself, I have lost three wives and seven children, five horses and ten goats. He has yet to reach many of our tribes, but we need to stop him, or if not exact retribution. Perhaps alone we are powerless, but if we join ourselves with the great Sulleiman, we may have a chance to exact some measure of vengeance.”
“Walk with me,” Sulleiman said to Styles and dismounted. They walked out into the desert out of hearing range of the rest.
“I believe you have much you could tell me that I am eager to hear,” Sulleiman said. “But for now, tell me what I need to know about your…doings since you left Morcay. I will promise you up front that I will not attack Kardan for two days. Lokris holds the city with roughly four thousand soldiers and a willing populace. My plans are to strike at Kardan as the opportunity affords itself, but I am under no illusions that I will defeat him in the end. I have four hundred horse in the vanguard to the south, and these seven hundred will make for some potential diversionary tactics, but not much else. Lourne commands over four thousand of Hawkwing’s cavalry, and every one of Kardan’s foot are worth four of mine. I offered him single combat and defeated him, but I let him live. If you can convince him to retire it will be a good thing that I did.:
“He will see his daughter, and Hawkwing brings along something that should give everyone reason the rethink their actions.” Styles promised.
“What?”
“You shall see. Suffice it to say I have seen the Highmen and some of their creations first hand. And it is almost certain that they plan to kill us all.”
“Why?”
“That is not so certain, except in general, whether they truly created us or not, they see us as a threat, and they have created…things, that can probably accomplish their goal. Suffice it to say that you will see the carcass of a beast that killed forty of Hawkwing’s best men before it was brought down. And whether or not you are truly chosen by some god to save the human race, one thing is certain. Men will not be saved by killing each other, and much of what is being done across the world has been inspired by the Highmen’s agents. We ourselves are perhaps their greatest weapon in their plans to exterminate us.”


Kardan dropped heavily back onto the rough bench from which he’d risen when Styles was ushered into the tent that served as his headquarters.
In front of him on the campaign table were spread his usual maps, diagramed formations and scrawled notes. His mouth hung open and his eyes were blank, in stark contrast to his normal clenched jaw and penetrating stare.
When Kardan’s eyes began to roll around in his sockets Captain Lourne, who had escorted Styles to the command center from the fortified camp’s perimeter, rushed to his side and seized his shoulder, shaking it.
“General! General!” He looked over at Styles with alarm. “I have never seen him like this…he has recently taken a severe wound.”
It seemed to Styles that Lourne was apologizing, and he did not quite understand why he would. Perhaps men like Kardan were not allowed a moment of weakness.
“Is it possible…?” Kardan mumbled. His brows furrowed, his mouth closed, his eyes seemed to focus and he stared at the table as if the answer to some cosmic question lay in his tumble of maps and diagrams. He looked up at Styles again.
“Is it possible?”
“Many things are possible that didn’t seem so when first we met.” Styles recalled that this was Jamar’s father, and that he would be inevitably more closely connected to the man in the future, something he was still not used to in dealing with the human race. It felt strange, but he concluded he owed him more than perfunctory responses. “She should arrive within a few days with Hawkwing and what’s left of his force….”
“What’s left of his force?”
“It’s a long story, which I will be happy to relate insofar as I know it. Jamar can fill you in on her end of it when she arrives But it would probably be useful if you were to send some men to escort him, and a few strong draft animals, if they are available.”
“I’ll go myself. Captain Lourne. Prepare a mounted regiment for departure within the hour.” He looked at Styles while Lourne saluted and made a silent exit. “What are the draft animals for?”
“Good to see you back in character, General. I don’t know exactly how to describe it to you,” Styles replied. “But Hawkwing deems it important that you see it.”
“Why?”
“Because he hopes it will cause you to cease this operation against Sulleiman.
I believe your daughter shares his opinion.”
“How is she? What did they do to her?”
“From what I understand,” Styles replied carefully, “They planned to use her to get to you. They wanted disruption in the empire. She’s recovered quite a bit, but she was not faring very well when I traded Hastar Myrdon for her.”
“The disruption occurred without my daughters help.”
“Exactly why they were willing to make the trade.”
“They? The so-called High Men Hawkwing and Canel inferred?”
“It’s more than an inference, I have seen one of them.”
“I have started reducing their walls with my siege.” Kardan began rolling up his maps and gathering his notes. “I will order a cease-fire, at least until my return. But my men will defend themselves.”
“That’s understandable.” Styles noticed the severe limp that hobbled Kardan as he moved around the table. “You’ve been injured.”
“Sulleiman offered me single combat.”
Styles decided not to mention that he had heard the story from Sulleiman already. “And you accepted. That was foolish.”
“It was the right thing to do. For whatever else he is, he’s a brilliant swordsman.”
He limped over to a trunk, placed his papers carefully inside, and locked it.
“I see he let you live.”
Kardan looked over at him for a long moment with those expressionless eyes.
“That’s apparent,” he finally remarked. “He defeated me, but my legion has never tasted defeat. It is he who is the fool, for thinking he could take my daughter from me and live.”

















Chapter Thirty






Lokris leaned against a rough hewn bracing of a scorpion and studied the horizon, where blowing sands obscured his vision of the activity that he could hear: wooden mallets hammering apart the catapults and scorpions that had bombarded them incessantly for the last two days. During those two days he had not slept.
Now that the ten and twenty pound shot was no longer plummeting out of the sky and crashing around him, the heavy iron bolts no longer whistling out of the wind-blown sand, he started to relax, even doze intermittently in a standing position.
He had ordered his bodyguards to take a nap on the battlements near him, for their bloodshot eyes and sagging postures had indicated that they needed the rest as much as he did. The seven-man crew of the Scorpion were lying nearby in an assortment of positions, snoring away. The eighth man of a the full crew had been hauled away a few hours earlier, his chest crushed by a twenty pound projectile. Thus, there was no challenge before he heard the wind-muffled footsteps behind him. The two years that he had served as a foot-patrol officer in Solis assured him that the approach was neither stealthy or threatening, and he was almost certain he knew who it was.
“So…,” Shulah Mah announced himself, “So that was the infamous Jared Styles.”
Lokris grunted an affirmation without turning around.
Three hours ago Styles had appeared beside Lokris as he made his rounds. They had retired to Lokris’ headquarters, where, where Shulah Mah seemed to be working diligently on the accounting books. Lokris had dismissed him and Styles had given him the news of Jamar’s return, Hawkwing’s timely appearance, and Sulleiman and Kardan’s intended movements. Shulah Mah had seemed very reluctant to leave when Lokris had ordered him out.
“Must have been Styles arranged the cease-fire,” Shulah Mah continued in spite of the fact it was obvious that Lokris did not feel like talking. He leaned against the wall and stared in the direction of the glow from torches that were still lit in the pre-dawn light in back of the rise that shielded most of Kardan’s siege engines “You know, a solo assassin like that, must be he gets lonely. You spent some time with him. Does he favor the women? I’ll bet he finds a brothel first thing he gets into a town or city.”
Lokris turned his head slowly and favored Shulah Mah with a cold stare that would have done Kardan himself proud for a moment, then turned away again.
Shulah Mah seemed oblivious as he continued. “They say those Orphans can take on the aspect of certain animals, that Jared styles runs like a wolf, springs like a cat. You ever see him do anything like that?”
“Excuse me a moment,” Lokris said as he gave his two bodyguards a light kick on their heels. “Wake up you two. We’re going back to headquarters and get some real sleep.” The two men dragged themselves to their feet and shook themselves awake.
Lokris turned again to Shulah Mah. “I can’t say much about that, but I did see him do something like this with a sword once.” He drew his short-sword casually and looked up into the sky, as if trying to remember something. The sight of steel brought his bodyguards instinctively to full alert. Lokris slowly brought the point up and rested it against Shulah Mah’s throat.
“Take this man to the military lock-up,” he ordered the two bodyguards. “And have someone watching him all the time. He was a spy and an assassin of some repute.
The guards moved forward, but Shulah Mah moved much more rapidly than Lokris imagined he could, dropping underneath the sword tip and rolling backwards, coming to his feet in an all-out sprint toward the commercial part of the small-city and the docks.
The two bodyguards started after him but Lokris called them back. “We’re not going to catch him in our condition,” Lokris assured them.
“I’ll sound the alarm,” One of the new horse archers, detailed to bodyguard duty by Mahngun, volunteered.
“No. I don’t want to take any attention away from Kardan’s army just yet. We’ll get some sleep, and I’ll send out some of the city-watch to make inquiries.”
“What happened? I knew you shouldn’t have ordered us to sleep on duty like that.”
“Yes, I should have. None of us are in much condition to exercise our duty properly right now.” Lokris corrected him. “The man is apparently no danger to me. But he’s asking a lot of suspicious questions about a certain person. I think he will end up dead on account of that.”






























Chapter Thirty-One





Malek was getting more edgy with every passing day. He rode through the section of the camp where hastily thrown up tents housed the zealot faction. It was disordered, no latrines had been dug as usual, and disease was spreading. Men who weren’t sleeping clustered in small groups chanting violent prayers and absurd hymns to their Princely prophet. Although nominative the head of this army, not a single hand moved to salute, and the only recognition he received were those unnerving empty stares. He had the uneasy feeling that the only reason any of the ‘secular’ portions of the army were still there, or more probably still alive, was that the Golden Prince was still clear enough in his thinking to know he might yet need his siege train, and men to support and defend it, once they reached Morcay.
Might. Because at this point there was no intelligence at all regarding the disposition or strength of Sulleiman’s forces. He had only met Sulleiman that one time in Morcay, but he had it in his head that Sulleiman was not the kind of person it was wise to underestimate. Without Shulah Mah supplying intelligence, all they had to rely on was the sheer size and rabidity of their force. Probably enough to carry the day, but still it was nice to know what you were marching into. He supposed Shulah Mah had been sniffed out by Sulleiman and was currently hanging from a post somewhere. No great personal loss, but certainly a practical disaster as far as his own plans were concerned.
He figured two weeks at the most to Morcay. There were only two more nomad settlements to sack, burn, and slaughter between this spot and Morcay.
It was time to lay his cards on the table with the infidels. He kneed his horse and turned it in the direction of the tenth legion’s orderly, and fortified, encampment, built several hundred yards from the zealot’s sprawl.
A man approached him at a run, and without speaking reached into a sack slung from his shoulder and produced a small scroll, then sprinted on to hand out more. Malek allowed his horse to plod on as he opened it. He snorted softly as he read it:
Amrah Akibah!
Be it known the Amrah has inspired his prophet with the following command:
From this moment the Golden Prince is no longer to be called the ‘Golden Prince’, but instead ‘the Diamond Prince,’ for his words are more precious than gold, and his deeds harder than steel! Be it also known that he who does not employ this phrase when referring to our prophet and prince, it is he who shall lose his tongue!

Lest anyone should be watching, Malek rolled up the document as carefully as an Alim would roll holy scripture, and placed it under his robes next to his heart. It seemed the great prince was conferring with his top, and only, advisor these days: the poet Al-Mizahl, for nearly all pronouncements lately concerned how his faithful might better eulogize the ‘Diamond Prince’.
Malek rode on thoughtful silence until he reached the legionary gate, where he was at last saluted, although without a great deal of enthusiasm.
“General Malek for General Vercontix. Open the gate!” the sentry called from atop the sand battlement. Four men swung the gate open and he rode through.
Here things were ordered much differently. The tents were laid out in orderly rows that created streets, weapons were stacked neatly outside each tent, their own personal caravan carrying their supplies was camped neatly in the middle, camel’s braying at his horse as he passed. The men patrolling the camp often looked sullen or nervous, but still seemed willing to do their duty.
Beyond the caravan, the silk tents of the siege engineers were ordered as well, but in a way Malek did not quite understand yet. The small, unarmored soldiers from the east looked like children as they worked around their machines, disassembling them, cleaning and repairing them, then reassembling them. But as Malek got closer, and could discern their features, he knew they were battle hardened veterans.
For some odd reason, all the artillery capable of indirect fire was aimed toward the Zealot’s sector, and direct firing machines were placed on carts. Nearby was a coral of oxen in full tackle ready to be hitched to and draw the siege carts. As he oversaw repairs and maintenance, the officer in charge noticed him and stood and gave his salute which consisted of a bow.
“I ride from one end of the army to the other, and get only two salutes,” Malek grumbled out loud. “And those from the infidel!”
He dismounted slowly and groaned, feeling like an old man. Two guards at the tent opening uncrossed their spears and pulled them away. No Salute.
He pushed his was through the canvas flaps where he found several Captains surrounding a table with old Vercontix at it’s head.
“I’m here to lay my cards on the table, Commander Vercontrix.” he announced. “Summon the siege officer.”
Vercontrix nodded at an officer next to him. “Get Captain Wu-Sam.” This officer snapped a proper salute.
That pleased Malek, because it meant that Vercontrix still had some control over his officers and men.
Malek stood aside as the legionary captains filed past him, temporarily dismissed.
Vercontrix motioned for him to sit.
“I have ordered my legion into a bad predicament,” Vercontrix stated.
“I, and the light cavalry still loyal to me, face the same problem.”
Captain Wu-Sam pushed his way into the tent.
“We were agreeing that we find ourselves in a bad position, win or lose,” Vercontrix informed him without ceremony.
“What you know of way out, then?” he asked Malek. Wu-Sam sat opposite Malek and at Vercontrix’ right hand.
“Less than I hoped. My intelligence line has been severed. One way or another, we will come upon Sulleiman’s forces. Or what’s left of them. What I propose to do is set out several scenarios, and perhaps we can collaborate on various responses to them.”



The outrider galloped in and dismounted in a cloud of dust. The ‘road’ leading toward the mist was now little more than a lightly traveled path along a dry river bed. Serious construction by Sulleiman’s engineers had not progressed beyond fifty miles toward the mist. He saluted Lourne perfunctorily and gasped out his report.
“It looks like a trap ahead. A large body of soldiers are blocking our path.”
“How large, corporal?”
“I estimate legion strength, sir. And they seem well ordered. I think it’s Sulleiman’s new Scorpion Brigade.”
“Cavalry?”
“On either flank. Several hundred. I couldn’t get a good look at them, sir, but they seem less orderly. Tribesmen, I imagine. Enough to give us trouble.”
“Let’s report this to Kardan, and see how he wants to approach it.” Lourne dismounted and led the way. The scout looked back anxiously at his horse, who had been blowing savagely and foaming at the mouth, but already a groom was walking it to the rear of the column.
Lourne noticed that Jared Styles had caught back up with the column and was discussing something with Kardan, and he wondered how a man on foot could cover that kind of distance.
“Excuse me, sir.” Lourne nodded to Styles. “But there is a small army blocking our path. This man has the report.” He motioned the scout forward.
“Sulleiman?” Kardan asked with a set jaw.
“I believe so, sir. You briefed us on the Scorpions, and I think it’s that unit, with substantial auxiliary cavalry.” The scout replied.
“I should have known Sulleiman would prove dishonorable.” Kardan pointed at Styles. “Seize this man. Tie him securely to a packhorse until we find out his part in this.”
A dozen dismounted troopers surrounded Styles with drawn swords. Two of them roughly seized his arms. Styles did not resist or speak as heavy rope was brought forward and he was bound tightly hand and foot.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Lourne moved close to Kardan and spoke in a low voice. “Hawkwing swears by him, and he is, after all, an Orphan. And he did rescue your daughter.”
“We have only his word on that. And I don’t care who he is. If it proves he’s part of this trap, I’ll execute him on the spot.”
“And spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder.”
“Captain Lourne.” Kardan scowled. “Please tell me since when we have started to operate out of fear.”
Lourne looked down at his boots.
“We don’t. Now, let’s get on the fastest horses we have, and you, me, and the scout will take a look at what’s in front of us. Corporal,” he addressed the scout. Are they moving toward us?”
“No, sir. They have an encampment behind them. When they spotted me they formed up in battle lines. Some of the horsemen on the flanks started toward me, but they were called back.”
On his way to selecting three fresh horses at the rear of the column, Lourne passed the men who were lifting Styles onto a horse, and tying his feet together to keep him there.
“Put him in the middle of the column, and be sure he doesn’t escape. His reputation precedes him. And I want three men watching him all the time.” Lourne ordered them.
“Captain, he can’t be that dangerous,” one of the hard looking veterans laughed.
“Sergeant, let’s not find out. I’m making you responsible for him.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant resumed a sober expression.
Lourne approached Styles and looked up at him. “I think I’m sorry about this.”
Styles shook his head and grinned. “Don’t worry about it. In his hob-nailed sandals I‘d do the same thing he’s doing. That may be my future father in law. He’s a little gruff, but at least he’s competent. I hope he’s wrong about Sulleiman, though. If he’s right, I’ll be forced to kill Sulleiman, and I was beginning to like him.”
It was not long after that two more of the outriders galloped in. Kardan signaled
the column to halt with an upraised hand, and they scrutinized the tiny cloud of dust on the horizon from a loose skirmish line, crossbows drawn. The three soldiers ordered to watch Styles herded the horse he was tied to in amongst the pack and draft animals.
The dust cloud grew until three riders could be discerned. They halted a thousand yards out and conferred, the shimmering heat lending them a specter-like aspect. Two of the riders turned and rode back toward the horizon. The one that continued on seemed to grow more solid and real, like some lost hero, released by the gods, riding out of another dimension toward one more battle. From the way the spirited white stallion pranced toward them at an oblique angle, there was no doubt in Styles’, Kardan’s, or Lourne’s mind that the rider was Sulleiman himself, though except for his eyes the man’s face was wrapped against the sun and stinging sands. Probably seeing the drawn cross-bows raised against him, the rider kicked his horse into a gallop for the last hundred yards in a typical act of bravado, and reined in.
Sul